


Let Me Be Your Mirror

by Luka z Rivii (wayward_dream)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Body Image, F/M, and thats what i gave him, geralt is insecure about his scars, geralt's scars, he deserves tender love, insecure!geralt, kinda bittersweet ending, poor self esteem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:41:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23440354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayward_dream/pseuds/Luka%20z%20Rivii
Summary: You don't see a beast or a monster when you look at Geralt; he disagrees.Or: Geralt has low self-esteem and deserves a hug.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Kudos: 75





	Let Me Be Your Mirror

Geralt was fairly certain you were sleeping.

It had been far too long since he'd been able to make his way back to you, his work always seeming to pull him in the opposite direction. When he'd knocked on your door tonight, drenched in mud and blood and chilled from the rain pouring down without mercy, he wouldn't have been at all surprised if you'd slammed the door in his face. Hurt, perhaps, but he would have understood, would have accepted it.

Harder to comprehend was your reaction. The memory of your eyes going warm and soft as you took in the sight of him made something ache in his chest. And even more baffling, you'd pulled him in, fed him and bathed him and allowed him to make love to you before curling up by his side.

You were perfect, in his eyes. Skin smooth and unmarked, he was hesitant to touch you for fear that he would ruin you with his touch alone. He knew he didn't deserve the admiration in your gaze, nor the tender way your fingers and lips slid over his marred flesh.

Now, all his appetites sated, he found himself too restless to sleep. He sat with his back to the headboard, reading a book of lore he'd recently acquired, your head pillowed on his lap and your hair spilling over his thigh.

He looks down at you, feels revulsion at the sight of his scarred hands sliding through your hair and down the curve of your neck possessively. Pressing his lips together, he withdrew his fingers, curling them into a tight fist before he gave into the temptation to touch you again, to take more from you than you'd already given.

He went perfectly still when he felt your fingers tracing a scar trailing down his thigh.

"What's wrong?" you murmured.

Geralt swallowed, forced the tension bunching his muscles to ease and taking a deep breath. "Nothing, dove," he said quietly. "Go back to sleep."

Instead you sat up, facing him and touching his jaw. Your thumb brushed over the scar under his eye and, unable to bear the open softness of your gaze, he looked to the side.

"Geralt?" you asked quietly. He hated to hear you so worried, hated even more to be the cause of it. He repressed a shiver as your hand slid down his neck, pausing at the scar on his shoulder.

He tensed, waiting for you to ask, because everyone always asked.

His exhaled breath was shakier than he cared to admit when you leaned in to brush your lips against the raised flesh instead. You pulled back to look at him again.

"Does it bother you, when I touch your scars? Am I causing you pain?"

Geralt sighed. "No, I'm fine." He started to reach for you, to touch your face, but paused at the sight of his rough and scarred hands so near you and dropped his hand before it made contact.

He hated the hurt that flashed through your eyes.

"Then why do you grow tense, every time I grow near them?" you asked. He cursed quietly. He's let you in too far, let you grow too close, if you can read him so easily. "Geralt? Please talk to me."

"What would you have me say?" His words came out sharper than he meant them to. But he kept his gaze on you steady. You didn't flinch, as he felt you should have, only pursed your lips in thought. Your hand caressed his shoulder absently, lingering, and he sighed in resignation. "Ask. I know you want to." He hoped you couldn't detect the faint bitterness in his tone.

You tilted your head at him, bird-like and inquisitive. He gestured vaguely at the scar you were touching and watched comprehension dawn on your face.

He was puzzled when you tugged gently on his arm, straightening it out and setting your own arm next to his. He scowled down at them.

"What do you see?" you asked quietly, turning to wrap your fingers gently around his forearm. Geralt felt his mouth twist in a grimace, but he didn't answer, still glaring down at your slender arm alongside his. He could hear the smile in your voice when you added, "Can I tell you what I see, then?"

He didn't answer, wasn't sure he wanted to hear this, but he grunted in acknowledgment. He was never any good at denying you. As you slid your fingers up his bicep he braced himself for vitriol and disgust.

He nearly flinched when your lips touched his ear, only years of training allowing him to stay still as a statue. "I see the stories of all the lives you've saved, the monsters you've slayed and the good you've done." Your breath tickled as it fanned against his skin, but he refused to react beyond the slightly elevated thumping of his heart. Unbidden, his eyes flickered up to yours, searching for any sign of lie or platitude.

He found none, only a gentle, earnest smile. "If you wish to tell me those stories, I'll gladly listen. But you never have to give anything of yourself to me that you don't want to." You kissed his forehead and Geralt was.....stunned.

"I….that's not…." He muttered, unable to look away from you and equally unable to make his tongue form the words he needed to make you understand.

He knew he was a beast, hulking and muscled and rough and likely to break anything he touched. They called him butcher for a reason, he knew he'd earned that title with all the blood on his hands. You had it all wrong, and he should make you understand that before it was you that he cradled broken in his wretched arms.

But as your lips pressed tender assurances to his jaw, his neck, your fingers soothing in his hair, his eyes slid closed and his arms encircled you tight before loosening, not wanting to hasten the inevitable.

He took your face in his hands and caught your lips in his. He knew he didn't deserve this, knew it could only end badly.

Someday you'd realize what he already knew, that you could do so much better than his grisly, ghastly self and all the disaster that doggedly chased at his heels wherever he went. But for now, he knew that so long as your arms were open to him, he would continue to indulge this greedy desire and take from you all that you were willing to give.

He'd always been a selfish bastard. So long as your arms remained open to him, he would continue to take all you were willing to give to him. He would take it gladly, and he would have it be enough, because he could never ask for more.

You'd already given him far more than he could ever hope to deserve.


End file.
